


Hearts Under Fire

by yalublyutebya



Series: Hearts At Home [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Character Death, False Accusations, M/M, Moriarty is a bad man, Religion, Scandal, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-07
Updated: 2012-06-10
Packaged: 2017-11-07 04:12:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,615
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/426790
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yalublyutebya/pseuds/yalublyutebya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock and John come under fire as Moriarty makes good on his threat to burn the heart out of Sherlock.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks as always to my beta, lady_t_220

"You've made the paper."

"Excuse me?" John said, looking up from the blog post he was working on. Sherlock was sitting next to him at the table, seemingly engrossed in a number of articles at once.

Sherlock only held out the paper in reply, his lips pressed together in a frown. John took the paper and turned it around, only to see a picture of himself. It was from a few years ago, his dog collar a prominent slash of white against his black shirt. His eyes flicked from the photo to a smaller one in the bottom corner. It was a paparazzi-style shot of him and Sherlock leaving Bishop Malcolm's funeral only a few weeks ago. They were walking closely together, both smiling. He narrowed his eyes and finally turned his attention to the story itself.

It seemed the media had grown bored with the little amount of gossip they could glean about the 'genius detective' and, with all the recent uproar about murder at the heart of the Church, they had jumped at the news that Sherlock Holmes' partner was a former priest. There was a detailed write-up of his time in the Church, and even an extract from his very first blog entry, in which he had announced his departure from the priesthood. He had no idea where most of the information had come from, and in addition he had to wonder just why his life story was worth a whole page in a national newspaper. He could only presume whoever had written it had aimed for the shock factor with the thinly-veiled implication that he and Sherlock were partners in more ways than one. 

John shook his head and set the paper aside, turning towards Sherlock.

"Why are you reading _The Daily Mail_ anyway?"

"It can be surprisingly insightful sometimes," Sherlock said, not even looking up from the paper he was now reading. John just shook his head and turned back to the laptop. 

He was still in the process of writing up the case of Deacon Thomas' murder spree for his blog, but it was one of the more difficult posts he had written, not least because of his own run-in with the murderer. The bruises had long faded, but the memories didn't seem in any rush to leave, and he had been woken several times by nightmares that felt so real he'd struggled to breathe. Sometimes, horribly, he dreamed that it was Sherlock being attacked and it felt a hundred times worse.

He was startled back to the present by Sherlock's hand coming to rest over his. He looked up, but Sherlock was still absorbed in the paper he held.

"You were thinking about it again," Sherlock said softly, brushing his fingers over the back of John's hand. John didn't even bother to ask how Sherlock knew; instead he curled his hand around Sherlock's.

"Anything good?" he asked, nodding towards the paper even though Sherlock couldn't see him.

"Sadly not."

"I suppose we could do with a break."

"This isn't normal. It's been far too quiet for weeks. Nothing but petty crimes and boring political scandals," Sherlock complained.

"That one with the Ambassador was quite interesting."

Sherlock scoffed. "Remind me not to offer my services to Mycroft again. It's never worth it."

John laughed and rose to his feet, picking up his empty mug and reaching over to grab Sherlock's too.

"More tea?"

"I'm fine, thank you."

"I thought that art theft might be up your street," John called from the kitchen. "That Turner painting, the waterfall one."

"Falls of the Reichenbach."

"Yeah, that one."

"Boring."

John smiled to himself and flicked the kettle on. Sherlock may have been growing frustrated with the lack of 'good' cases, but John was more than content to have a rest. He had been quite thrown by the Deacon Thomas affair and he had needed time to properly deal with it, and some of the lingering issues it had brought to light. It was the main reason he had started seeing a psychiatrist, somewhat to Sherlock's annoyance. It helped, though, to talk to someone outside of his life - and outside of the Church - about his conflicted feelings and the sometimes overwhelming guilt. 

Talking to the psychiatrist had been one step on the road to recovery, but the most important for him had been returning to church. Every Sunday, except on very rare occasions when he couldn't get away, he went to Mass at their local church. Not long after John started going, Simon had transferred to the church, and John was glad to see that any bad feeling between them had completely disappeared. He had even stayed for tea after the service on several occasions, and he and Simon had become something close to friends. 

John had also made it a point to visit Lawrence as often as he could, and in fact that was where he was off that very morning. He finished up his second cup of tea before he washed and dressed, all whilst avoiding Sherlock's attempts to persuade him into not going.

"Didn't you say Molly was going to let you see that body with the syphilis?" John asked, pulling on his jumper.

Sherlock huffed and threw himself back on the bed in an inelegant sprawl.

"She changed her mind."

"What did you do this time?"

"Nothing!" Sherlock exclaimed, then let out an annoyed sigh. "Molly was so much more receptive when she thought I was interested in her. I wish you hadn't made our relationship quite so obvious."

"You kissed me first!" John countered. Sherlock rolled his eyes and let out another huff of annoyance.

John just shook his head and bent down low over the bed, wrapping his hand around Sherlock's wrist.

"I'm going now. Promise me you won't just lie around and sulk all day."

Sherlock didn't answer but when John pressed a kiss to his mouth, Sherlock reached up to grab a handful of John's jumper, preventing him from moving away again. 

"I'm definitely going," John whispered, brushing his lips against Sherlock's. "Really."

Sherlock lured him back into another kiss, but John eventually tore himself away, straightening with a lopsided grin.

"I'm going."

"Fine," Sherlock said, retrieving his phone from his dressing gown pocket and proceeding to text someone with pointed movements. John smiled and shrugged his jumper back into place again.

"I'll see you later."

Sherlock gave a vague hum in reply and John left him to whatever he had found to distract himself.

****

Lawrence was not, as John expected, alone. A redheaded woman sat opposite the priest, regarding him with a slight frown - which morphed into a wide smile as John let himself in through the kitchen door.

"John, this is--" Lawrence started, but was cut off as the woman got to her feet, walking over to John and shaking his hand.

"Kitty Riley," the woman said. "You must be the famous John Watson."

"Oh, I don't know about famous."

"Ms Riley is from _The Sun_ ," Lawrence explained.

"Ah," John said.

"I'd love to have just a minute of your time," Ms. Riley said with a warm smile.

 "I'm afraid I'm not interested in doing any interviews, Ms Riley."

The woman's smile disappeared, her eyes narrowing slightly.

"Don't you want to set the record straight?" she asked.

"I didn't think there was a record to set straight," John said with a slight smile.

"So you deny the rumours about your relationship with Sherlock Holmes?"

"What rumours?" John asked, more than a little bemused.

"What exactly is your relationship then?"

"I don't think that's any of your business."

"Aren't you a bit old for him?" Kitty suggested, obviously trying to force a reaction from him that would give her a nice juicy scoop.

"A bit old for what exactly?" John countered mildly, and the journalist seemed to give up with a snarl.

"Well, if you change your mind, Mr. Watson, here's my card." She slipped a small rectangle of card from her pocket and handed it to John, before heading for the door. She paused at the last moment and turned to Lawrence. "Thank you for your time," she got out stiffly.

"You're welcome."

She frowned at both of them and then let herself out. John turned to Lawrence and quirked an eyebrow in amusement.

"Well, that was interesting."

"You appear to have become a celebrity," Lawrence commented.

John laughed and shook his head, moving to the sideboard. 

"I'll make the tea, shall I?"

"Please. I think we've got a lot of catching up to do. I want to know how you go from the partner that never gets mentioned to 'the famous John Watson' in a few weeks."

John laughed again and turned the kettle on. His life seemed to have taken a rather surreal turn of late.

****

John returned home later that afternoon to find Sherlock ranting to a bemused Lestrade.

"Don't you see?" Sherlock was saying. "The security guard had diarrhoea. He left his post, and that's when they snuck in."

Lestrade nodded in greeting to John and Sherlock stopped for a brief moment to cast a glance in John's direction, before starting up again. 

"They had an informant, someone inside the gallery who knew the guard was lactose intolerant. All they had to do was swap his lactose free milk for some normal milk, and as soon as he had a cup of tea he was violently ill."

John settled in his usual chair, watching Sherlock pace and pontificate with a smile. 

"Alright," Lestrade finally cut in. "Stop telling me what we've done wrong, and tell me what to do now."

Sherlock smiled and launched into a detailed explanation of where exactly the police would find the missing painting. Once he was done, Lestrade thanked him and left quickly, already on his phone.

"Not so boring after all then?" John asked with a smile.

"Still laughably simple."

Sherlock drifted over to John's chair, perching on the edge of the arm. John shook his head fondly and wrapped an arm around Sherlock's hips.

"Well, at least it kept you occupied."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, leaning slightly into John's embrace.

"I thought we could eat out tonight," Sherlock said out of the blue. "There's a very nice Persian place over in Covent Garden."

"What are you trying to avoid?" John asked with a knowing look. "Or should I say 'who'?"

Sherlock scowled and John smiled. "Let me guess... Mycroft rang."

"Obviously."

"He offered you a case, and just to spite him you took the painting case instead. But now you've solved that one..."

"Yes yes, alright," Sherlock snapped. John smiled and gave Sherlock's hip a little squeeze.

"Dinner sounds nice," he said, deciding to take pity on his partner.

Sherlock gave him a wide grin and bent down to press a kiss to his mouth.

They were interrupted only a few moments later by noises downstairs and, soon enough, footsteps making their way up the stairs to the flat. Sherlock pulled away with a familiar grimace that was John's first and only clue as to who their visitor might be.

Sherlock moved away and flung himself dramatically on the sofa just as Mycroft walked through the door.

"Not interested," Sherlock barked.

"Hello to you too, Sherlock," Mycroft answered, unruffled as always by his brother's theatrics. "John."

"Mycroft," John greeted back. "What can we possibly do for you?"

Mycroft gave him one of his usual enigmatic smiles and turned towards his brother, bending to lay down a file he had been holding onto the coffee table. Sherlock's gaze flicked over it, but then he turned away, feigning nonchalance.

"Not interested," Sherlock repeated.

"Oh, I think you will be."

"And why's that?"

"This," Mycroft said, with a grand wave towards the file, "... is everything the combined intelligence services of the UK and America know about James Moriarty."

John's eyes were drawn to the file, which couldn't have been more than a centimetre thick. When he glanced up, he could see that Sherlock's interest had been piqued with the mere mention of that name.

"Not exactly impressive," Sherlock commented.

"No," Mycroft agreed. "Which is why we need your help."

"Why now? It's been a year since we've seen any sign of him."

"Come now, brother," Mycroft chided with a brief glance towards John. "I know you've been keeping track of him. Or at least of his rather distinctive signature."

John's eyes flew to Sherlock, narrowing. Sherlock's interest in Moriarty a year ago had bordered on obsessive and unhealthy, but John had thought the attraction had been severed by the events at the Pool. Hearing that, on the contrary, Sherlock had continued to follow this man - and had decided to keep it from John, which was perhaps rather telling - left him admittedly rather stung.

Sherlock's expression turned visibly guilty, and that just made things worse. John rose silently to his feet and made his way into the kitchen, the Holmes brothers' voices still clearly audible as he bent over the work top, trying to calm his breathing.

"I can't tell you why," Mycroft was explaining. "But I can tell you that the government suddenly finds itself very much interested in Moriarty."

"He has something you want," Sherlock stated. Mycroft didn't answer and Sherlock continued after a moment's silence. "Why me?"

"You understand him. You know how he works. We're hoping you can find him."

The room went silent again and John clenched his fingers against the work top, before releasing it with a sigh and going through to the bedroom. The mere thought of Moriarty made him feel dizzy, bringing back memories of the most terrifying experience of his life. He could almost feel the phantom weight of a Semtex vest and he had to violently shake the memory away.

It was long minutes before John eventually heard Mycroft leave and he sat on the edge of the bed as Sherlock hesitantly made his way to the bedroom. Sherlock appeared in the doorway, hovering awkwardly for a moment before taking a step forwards.

"You're upset."

John let out a sigh and raked a hand through his hair. "Yes, I'm upset."

"John--"

"Why are you so obsessed with him?" John snapped. "He's left us alone, so why do you have to go looking for trouble?"

"He's only biding his time, John. He'll be back."

John let out a frustrated huff and ran a hand through his hair. Sherlock took another step closer, drawing John's gaze back to him.

"He threatened you, John. He threatened us," Sherlock said in a low but insistent tone. "I needed to keep track of him to make sure I was ready if he showed up again."

John closed his eyes and shook his head a little, before meeting Sherlock's gaze.

"So are you taking Mycroft's case?"

"You don't want me to," Sherlock said with a frown.

"I just..." John sighed. "I wish I never had to hear the name Moriarty again."

Sherlock finally took the last remaining steps and sat down beside him.

"I will stop him, John," he said, reaching out to grasp John's arm. "Whatever it takes, I'll stop him."

He looked so fierce and insistent, and yet at the same time so hopelessly young and naive, that John could do nothing but nod as he drew Sherlock in close.

"You will."


	2. Chapter 2

The Reichenbach case which saw Sherlock hailed a hero was just the start of a long line of high-profile cases. Barely a week went by without Sherlock's name appearing in one newspaper or another - and increasingly with John's name alongside it. For a few mad days they were even followed by a lone paparazzo, but he disappeared again rather quickly, apparently bored of watching every movement in their uneventful life.

"Are we really that interesting?" John mused aloud as he flicked past another story about their most recent case in the newspaper.

"No, everyone else is just really that boring," Sherlock murmured, barely looking up from where he was bent over his laptop. John laughed and folded the paper, putting it down on the arm of the chair and pushing himself to his feet. He crossed the room to the desk, resting a hand on the back of Sherlock's neck.

"Lunch? I think it's time you had a break. You've been at that all morning."

Sherlock straightened, leaning into John's caress, but shook his head in annoyance.

"I need to find... something. Anything. Some sort of lead."

"Have we got a new case I don't know about?" John asked.

Sherlock tilted his head towards John and the hesitant look that crossed his face was more an answer than perhaps he realised.

"Moriarty," John said quietly, and Sherlock nodded in confirmation. John took a calming breath and stepped away. "Do you fancy a sandwich or-"

Sherlock's hand darted out and grabbed John's wrist, stopping him in his tracks.

"John."

"It's fine."

"It's not fine. You're still upset."

John sighed and moved closer to Sherlock again, comforting himself by laying his arm around Sherlock's shoulders.

"Have you found anything?" John forced himself to ask.

Sherlock looked at him for several moments without speaking, and then picked up a pile of papers and thrust them at John.

"What are these?"

"Details of all the cases that we've had in the last nine months."

"And?" John prompted, rearranging the papers in his hands, a few familiar names and places jumping out a him.

"Sixty-eight percent of them have some connection to Moriarty."

John's eyes widened and he looked back up at Sherlock again. "So many?"

"Yes. And that's only the cases we know about."

"He's everywhere," John said breathlessly.

"But he's only one man!" Sherlock exclaimed, throwing his hands in the air in frustration. "How can it be so hard to find one man?"

John placed the papers back down on the table and placed a hand on Sherlock's shoulder.

"Come on, you need a break."

"I can't just take a break, John! He could be coming after us right now."

"Sherlock," John said calmly, pressing his hand to Sherlock's cheek. "Listen to yourself. You sound paranoid... and a little crazy."

"Something's coming," Sherlock breathed, placing his hand over John's. "I know it. Please believe me."

"Of course I believe you. But you running yourself ragged isn't going to help, is it?"

Sherlock's shoulders finally sagged and he leaned into John, shaking his head.

"John?" he murmured into John's chest.

"Yes."

"I need you to promise that you'll be extremely careful whenever you leave this flat."

John stroked a hand through Sherlock's hair, glad that Sherlock couldn't see his face at that moment because the fact that Sherlock was so anxious was making him increasingly worried. "Okay."

"If he took you from me-"

"He won't," John said firmly.

Sherlock let out a shaky breath and buried his head further into John's embrace, before finally moving away and lifting his face, his usual calm composure magically restored - at least in the eyes of anyone who didn't know him as well as John did. 

"Let's go out and get some lunch," John suggested. "I think we could both do with some fresh air."

Sherlock agreed and they stepped outside into the hazy warmth of a summer's day a few minutes later.

****

For the next few weeks, Sherlock continued to search, and John to worry, but still nothing happened. Sherlock had briefly concluded that Moriarty must be out of the country and had decided to wait him out - for all of three days - before giving up on that idea and returning to his hunt. He barely slept, or ate, or did anything but chase a thousand leads that seemed to go nowhere. It felt to John like Sherlock was slipping away, like the Sherlock he knew was being possessed by this madman who lived and breathed for one thing only - the great game. 

After failing to coax Sherlock into eating, John sat at the kitchen table alone, picking at his spaghetti bolognese. He glanced over at where his lover was standing, hands on his hips and eyes fixed on the mish-mash of evidence that had been stuck to the wall. He'd barely moved in three hours. John sighed and got to his feet, throwing what remained of his dinner in the bin and leaving his plate to soak in the sink.

John moved into the living room and settled in an armchair, picking up the book he had discarded before dinner. He'd made the mistake of turning the television on earlier that day, only to receive an angry remark from Sherlock, who complained that it interfered with his thinking.

John tried vainly to concentrate on his book, but soon enough, his attention was completely taken up with watching Sherlock. He hadn't come to bed for the last two nights - John wasn't sure if he'd slept at all - and he looked almost haggard, with dark shadows under his eyes. John closed his book decisively, getting to his feet and crossing the room to stand next to Sherlock.

"Anything?" he asked softly.

Sherlock jumped and turned to John with a frown. "No." He turned back to the wall.

John sighed and pressed his hand to the small of Sherlock's back.

"Why don't you take a break?" he suggested gently. "I think I'm going to turn in early for the night. Come to bed with me."

"John, I don't have time, I'm sorry," Sherlock said, his eyes never leaving the wall.

"I'm not asking for anything," John said, badly hiding his disappointment at Sherlock's outright dismissal. "I just want you to rest before you wear yourself out."

"I'm fine," Sherlock said, moving deliberately away from John's hand and laying on the sofa with his eyes closed and his hands pressed together in his usual fashion.

"Can I get you anything?" John asked almost desperately.

"No," Sherlock said. " Thank you."

"I'll just... I'll be in bed if you need me."

Sherlock gave a little hum of acknowledgement but didn't even look at John, and John was surprised by how much it hurt. He turned and quickly made his way to their bedroom, slumping onto their bed still in his clothes. He pulled Sherlock's pillow towards him and pressed his face into it, telling himself over and over again that once this was over - once Moriarty was found - they could get on with their lives.

****

"Why don't you just talk to him?" Lawrence suggested as they sat either side of the kitchen table two days later. "Tell him how you're feeling?"

"It's not that simple," John sighed. "You haven't seen him. He's obsessed... And I think he enjoys it. All he ever wants is the distraction of a good mystery, a thrilling chase, and Moriarty is giving him the case of a lifetime."

"Is this Moriarty really so dangerous?"

"More than you can even imagine. And Sherlock doesn't even realise the half of it because he's too..." John sank back in his chair, running a hand through his hair. "He's being sucked into this world where everything is a clever trick and... I don't even know. I've never seen him like this."

Lawrence reached over to rest his hand over John's.

"You need to tell him, John. You look, quite frankly, miserable."

"I feel like I'm losing him," John murmured, clenching his jaw as he felt his emotions starting to get away from him. "And I keep thinking..."

"Yes?"

"What if this is all part of Moriarty's plan? Driving us apart... Seducing Sherlock with interesting crimes..." John laughed sourly. 

"John, be rational," Lawrence said softly. "He probably doesn't even know what you are to each other."

"He knew enough to use me against Sherlock last time," John countered. "And anyway, all he needs to do is pick up a newspaper. I'm sure they're only one step away from just declaring us as lovers for all the world to see. Lord knows they've hardly been subtle up until now."

"No," Lawrence agreed with a frown.

"I don't know what to do," John said with a sigh.

"You have to talk to Sherlock. You need to make him understand what this is doing to you."

"I feel like I'm being irrational," John said. "If he finds Moriarty and stops him, the world would be a much better place."

"But what will it take to do that?"

"I don't even know," John said, staring pensively off into space. "Something big."

****

When John returned home, he was greeted by a series of low thuds coming from the bedroom. He approached the room cautiously, only to find Sherlock throwing clothes haphazardly into a holdall.

"What are you doing?" John asked with a frown, crossing his arms over his chest.

"Ah, John, there you are," Sherlock said distractedly, throwing another shirt onto the growing pile. "Have you seen my walking boots?"

Sherlock moved back to the wardrobe and rifled through the heap of shoes at the bottom.

"Sherlock," John said through gritted teeth. "Where are you going?"

Sherlock paused for a moment and gave John a perplexed look, before disappearing inside the wardrobe again. 

"We, John," he called. "We are going to Portugal."

"Why?" John asked in a strained voice.

"I'm sure that's where he is, John. There's a drug-smuggling ring just outside of Lisbon that has his name all over it."

John tightened his arms across his chest and let out a shaky breath.

"I'm not going."

Sherlock finally stopped what he was doing and sat back on his heels to look at John.

"What do you mean, you're not going?"

John sighed. "I'm not going. I'm staying here."

"John, this could be it - my chance to stop him once and for all."

"Or it could just be another wild goose chase!" John said, his voice rising in desperation.

Sherlock's expression passed through surprise and shock, before settling into an indifferent mask that made John's chest ache.

"I see," Sherlock said quietly, turning back to the wardrobe.

"Sherlock-"

"No, you're quite right. It wouldn't be safe for you to come. I can pass unnoticed much more easily by myself."

Sherlock rose and zipped the holdall shut with a quick, angry movement. He dragged the bag off the bed and slung it over his shoulder, making a move for the door. "I shouldn't be more than a few days."

"Sherlock, please."

Sherlock paused and turned to press a quick kiss to the side of John's mouth.

"Be safe," he whispered, pulling away before John could stop him.

"Sherlock!"

He was gone before John could do anything else and John sank to the bed, resting his head in his hands. He felt dizzy and sick and, once reality set in, he realised that Sherlock was rushing off into the face of danger alone. He leaned over to his bedside table, his hand hovering over his rosary for a brief moment, before landing on his phone. He picked it up and dialled one of only three numbers he had on speed dial, rubbing a hand over his face as it rang. 

"I'm already on it," Mycroft said as soon as he answered, adding a moment later. "Don't worry."

John huffed out a laugh that was more distressed than anything else, before turning serious again.

"Thank you."

Mycroft hung up without another word and John threw his phone to the bed, reaching out for his rosary and fingering the beads in a desperate bid for comfort, his mouth moving unconsciously over the familiar words of the Hail Mary. 


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock returned three days later and, apparently having forgotten their less than cordial parting, threw himself at John where he sat on the sofa, winding long arms around him and pressing his face against John's neck. After a moment of surprise, John pulled him as close as he could, arms wrapped tightly around him.

"I'm sorry," Sherlock whispered against John's neck.

"No, I'm sorry. This case has been making me crazy, I don't even know what I'm thinking half the time."

John pulled back and cupped Sherlock's face in his hands, eyes flicking over him with concern.

"I'm fine," Sherlock assured him, pressing his face into John's caress.

"And Moriarty?" John asked warily.

"Long gone," Sherlock said somewhat sheepishly, looking away briefly before meeting John's gaze again. "I should have listened to you."

"I'm just glad you're okay," John said, leaning over to press his head against Sherlock's. "I should have gone with you."

"Let me make it up to you," Sherlock murmured, tilting his head to catch John's lips between his. 

John tugged him closer and kissed him hungrily, desperate for the intimacy that had also fallen by the wayside in the midst of Sherlock's mindless pursuit. Sherlock moaned against him and shifted until he was straddling John's lap, pressing him down into the sofa. John impatiently went for the buttons on Sherlock's shirt, undoing them as quickly as he could while Sherlock distracted him with biting, almost frantic, kisses. 

John finally managed to get Sherlock's shirt undone and swept it open, baring pale, smooth skin to his touch. 

"I thought I was going to lose you," John whispered, trailing a hand down Sherlock's side.

"You should know better than that by now," Sherlock said huskily, pressing his forehead to John's.

"I didn't know how to get through to you," John said softly, pressing his hands to Sherlock's shoulder blades, his eyes falling closed. He could feel some of the tightness that had been restricting his chest for weeks starting to dissipate.

"John," Sherlock said brokenly, covering John's mouth with his own a beat later. John pulled him close, one hand raising to twine in his hair. Sherlock's fingers were digging into his arms hard enough to hurt, but he didn't care because this was the Sherlock he knew, back in his arms, pliant and warm and wholly focused on John.

John pulled away, panting against Sherlock's collarbone.

"We should go to bed," he murmured around gentle nips to Sherlock's skin. "Before Mrs. Hudson walks in and has a heart attack."

Sherlock merely groaned in response and dragged him into another kiss. John smiled against his lips and gently pulled away, pressing his hands to Sherlock's shoulders. "Bed."

Sherlock hurried to his feet, pulling John up with him with an impatient tug. John laughed and allowed himself to be herded towards the bedroom. As soon as they were there, he turned the tables, guiding Sherlock down onto the bed and hovering over him.

He ran his thumb over Sherlock's lip and then his jaw, his nail catching on the very slightest hint of stubble.

"I missed you," John said, focusing his gaze on his thumb where it now glided over Sherlock's throat.

"I was only gone for three days."

"You've been gone longer than that," John breathed, his mouth following the trail of his thumb.

He felt Sherlock tremble, and then long limbs were winding around him, pulling him close.

"I'm sorry, John. I'm sorry."

John let out a shaky breath and forced the memory of the last few weeks away. He pressed himself along the length of Sherlock's body and kissed him tenderly, determined to erase the worry and stress from both their minds.

Some time later, when they were laying tangled together, Sherlock's head pillowed on John's chest, John couldn't help bringing up the subject of the sudden change in Sherlock's behaviour.

"Sherlock," he murmured, tracing idle patterns on his partner's back.

"Hmm?"

"Did something happen in Portugal?"

Sherlock stiffened for a moment, but then spoke up with a forced casualness.

"Why do you ask?"

"It's just... You seem different. Three days ago I hardly recognised you, and now..."

Sherlock didn't say anything for a long time and John was resigned to not receiving an answer, but then Sherlock finally spoke.

"I was simply forced to reassess my priorities," Sherlock said in a quiet voice, before pushing himself up on his elbow to look at you. "You are the most important thing to me, John. Always."

John smiled softly, tucking an errant curl behind Sherlock's ear and pulling him closer for a gentle kiss. He felt like there was something more that Sherlock wasn't telling him, but he wasn't inclined to push - not now that he had his Sherlock back.

****

John was making breakfast when Sherlock emerged from the bedroom the next morning, endearingly rumpled and half-asleep. Once he got close enough, he pressed himself to John's back, placing a kiss on the side of his neck.

"Morning," John said with a smile, more relaxed than he had been for what felt like a lifetime. 

"Why are you up so early?" Sherlock complained.

"It's ten o'clock."

Sherlock harrumphed and John laughed, steering him out of the way so he could make tea. "Did you sleep at all during the last three days?"

Sherlock went quiet and when John glanced up, his partner was frowning.

"Hardly," he said, fixing his eyes on John. "I... I couldn't sleep without you there."

It was a surprisingly sentimental comment, coming from Sherlock, and John smiled fondly, reaching out to take his hand and pull him closer. 

"I missed you too, you silly sod," he whispered, guiding Sherlock down into a soft kiss. 

Sherlock instantly pressed in close, trapping John between his body and the counter. 

"Coo-e, only me!"

They parted just as Mrs. Hudson appeared in the doorway, looking a little harried.

"Oh, thank God you're back safe, Sherlock. I couldn't believe it when John told me you'd gone."

Sherlock gave a slight grimace but it went unnoticed as Mrs. Hudson continued.

"And then I see all this nonsense about 'trouble in paradise' in the newspaper, and I must admit I was a little surprised. I thought you were being a bit discreet after that incident with the deacon."

"Mrs. Hudson, what are you going on about?" Sherlock asked. 

The woman gave them both a frown and then bustled over to the living room. "I left my copy of the paper up here just yesterday."

She retrieved a paper from the crowded coffee table and flicked through until she'd found the right page. She handed it over to Sherlock with a slight frown.

"I'll leave you boys in peace."

Sherlock perched on the arm of the nearest chair and John leaned over his shoulder to read the article Mrs. Hudson had pointed out.

 

**_Reichenbach hero in secret relationship shock_ **

_by Kitty Riley_

_Sherlock Holmes has become a household name since solving some of the most perplexing crimes in recent history, but the detective, 29, has always remained silent on the topic of his private life. However, The Sun can now reveal that the boffin has been in a secret relationship with crime-fighting partner - and former priest - John Watson, 42, for several months._

_"They've known each other for years," a source close to the two told The Sun. "But, you know, with John being in the Church and everything, it wouldn't have been appropriate."_

_Watson left the Church only last year, giving no reason for his departure on his blog. He was recently revealed to be the only survivor of Deacon Thomas Matthews' murderous spree, a rampage that saw two priests and a bishop killed for their pro-gay marriage stances. It is believed that Watson was targeted because of his relationship with Holmes._

_"They've had their fair share of ups and downs," the source informed us. "But they're very happy together."_

_It would seem there may be trouble in paradise though, as Holmes was recently seen leaving the country without Watson in tow._

_  
_

Before John could finish reading to the end, Sherlock threw the paper down in anger. 

"Mindless idiots!"

"Hey," John said softly, reaching out to wrap an arm around Sherlock's waist. "It's no big deal. So someone's finally made the step and come right out and said that we're a couple. We've got nothing to be ashamed of."

Sherlock sighed, running a hand through his hair.

"Anyone could use this to their advantage, John."

"That's always been a possibility, even before now."

"I know," Sherlock admitted. "I just don't like to think of my enemies suddenly assuming they've got a way to get back at me, through you."

"You worry too much," John joked, although he knew Sherlock had some grounds for concern - especially after their experience with Moriarty. "It's just a stupid article. The worst that could happen is someone will read it and think 'why on earth is a young, beautiful person like that going out with such an old man?'."

Sherlock laughed lowly and turned to press his mouth to John's temple.

"We've discussed this. You're not old."

"Not young either," John said with a smile. 

They fell silent for a few moments, before John spoke up in amusement.

"It's nice to see that me declining an interview didn't stop Ms. Riley from getting her story, eventually."

"You've met her?" Sherlock asked, pulling back to look at John.

"Yes, you remember I told you about the journalist who was pestering Lawrence."

"I knew the name was familiar," Sherlock mused aloud, suddenly seeming lost in thought. "Now we just need to find out who her supposed source is."

John frowned, wondering himself who might have spoken to Kitty Riley. He couldn't imagine any of their friends doing so, but then didn't know who else it could be. When he glanced up, Sherlock was staring at the wall, lost in thought. John smiled and steered him gently to the sofa, before moving away to finish breakfast. He had no doubt that Sherlock would solve the mystery of Kitty Riley's source for the both of them.


	4. Chapter 4

Apart from a few knowing looks when they were recognised in the street, there didn't seem to be much fallout from Kitty Riley's article. Things seemed to be getting back to normal again; although Sherlock was still tracking Moriarty as hard as ever, he was making a conscious effort not to get so caught up in it that he forgot everything else. In the end, just as Sherlock had predicted, Moriarty was the one who made the first move.

"This is exactly what we hoped to avoid, Sherlock," Mycroft chastised, looking far too at home in one of their armchairs. The week had been one of outright chaos. The Bank of England and Pentonville Prison had been sealed down securely enough within the first few hours, but even now the Tower of London remained closed to tourists.

"He's been arrested and he's going on trial, surely that's the outcome you were hoping for?" Sherlock said dismissively. In all truth, John thought he had seemed a bit bitter about Moriarty practically handing himself in.

"You really think it's that easy with a man like Moriarty?" Mycroft asked with a sneer. 

Sherlock scowled at his brother and the two were locked in a silent battle of wills for several long moments before John rolled his eyes and spoke up.

"As Sherlock said, he's locked up for now, which means he's the Police and the court's problem, not ours."

Mycroft turned to give John a slight frown and John held his gaze firmly, not about to be cowed by the elder Holmes.

"Very well," Mycroft finally said reluctantly, rising to his feet. "I suppose we'll just have to wait and see what the outcome of the trial is."

Mycroft left with a nod in John's direction and a glare at the back of his brother's head, and John sank onto the sofa, lifting Sherlock's legs out of the way to make room for himself.

"Are you ready for the trial?"

"Of course," Sherlock answered shortly.

"And you know what you're going to say?"

"Yes."

"And you remember what they said about keeping it simple?"

"Yes!" Sherlock said huffily.

John fell silent, but smiled softly when Sherlock reached out to wrap his fingers around John's. 

"I'm just glad it's almost over," John whispered, squeezing Sherlock's hand. 

****

The trial began and Sherlock was gone for much of the next three days, either giving his statement or simply watching from the gallery. He seemed on edge and John couldn't exactly blame him - they would both only be able to relax once this was over. He even wondered idly if he might be able to persuade Sherlock into taking a holiday. 

The day of the verdict came and Sherlock seemed even more restless than usual as he prepared to leave. 

"It'll be fine," John said softly, drawing Sherlock into a kiss. Sherlock kissed him once, twice, and nodded reluctantly. "Now go, before you're late."

Sherlock gave him a half smile and left the flat, leaving John to mindlessly bumble around the flat for the next few hours.

John was just putting away the dishes when he heard footsteps on the stairs and he turned, expecting to see Sherlock at the door - and froze almost instantly.

"Hello, Father," Moriarty said with a smirk.

John backed into the counter, wrapping his hands around the edge as if bracing himself.

"Oh, sorry, it's not 'Father' anymore, is it?" Moriarty said pleasantly, wandering into the kitchen and looking around curiously at the remnants of Sherlock's last experiment. "So, John, have you missed me?"

"What do you want?" John asked shakily.

"I think you already know the answer to that."

"You want Sherlock."

"Close," Moriarty said with a wide grin. "I want to destroy Sherlock."

John didn't reply, his lips thinning into a grim, determined line.

"And before you ask anything mindless, like 'why?', or start grovelling, take a moment to wonder 'why not?'" Moriarty gave a casual shrug, before laughing. "No promises of salvation left for me, John?"

He paused to flick idly through a notebook Sherlock had left on the work top.

"I suppose there's no hope for you either now. Or for Sherlock," Moriarty mused aloud. "That's a nice idea, isn't it? That we'll all be rotting in hell together, at the end of the day."

Moriarty looked up from the notebook and fixed his dark eyes on John.

"You thought you could save him, but you don't know Sherlock Holmes the way I do," Moriarty said fiercely. "We're the same, you see. Two halves of the same coin."

"Sherlock is nothing like you," John said tautly.

Moriarty only hummed in reply, turning to survey the living room.

"Did he tell you what happened in Portugal?" Moriarty asked nonchalantly. "Did he tell you about the man he tortured half to death in search of information about little old me?"

John forced himself not to show any kind of response when Moriarty turned to smile at him. 

"Ah, he didn't. Such a shame when lovers lie to each other... I hear the poor man was reduced to begging and pleading before Sherlock would stop. Apparently, he even threw in a few prayers to whoever might be listening up there."

Moriarty paused and gave him a sly grin. "Such ruthlessness. It makes me feel all warm and fuzzy."

"If you're going to kill me," John started, fighting to keep his voice from shaking, "Just hurry up and do it so I don't have to listen to you anymore."

Moriarty laughed and took a step towards John.

"Do you want to be a martyr, John?"

"If it helps to eventually stop you..."

Moriarty took another step forwards and John found himself crowded back against the counter.

"Why would I want to kill you when you're so useful to me alive?" Moriarty said with a cruel smile. "You are Sherlock's weak spot, and you're going to make it so very easy for me to crush him in every single way."

"He'll stop you."

Moriarty laughed again, the sound grating on John's nerves, and looked at his watch. "Goodbye, John. It was nice talking to you."

Moriarty left as silently as he had arrived, and as soon as he was gone John slid to the floor, his trembling body unable to keep him upright any longer.

****

John had relocated to the sofa by the time Sherlock returned, but Sherlock took one look at him and dropped to the floor in front of him, cradling John's face in his hands.

"Did he touch you?"

John shook his head, wrapping his hands around Sherlock's wrist, needing the comfort of his touch.

"What did he say to you?"

"Nothing new. Threatened me, threatened you. He's getting a bit repetitive," John joked weakly, before straightening with a slight frown. "Why the hell isn't he locked up right now?"

"He manipulated the jury."

"Unbelievable," John whispered. "So now what?"

Sherlock hesitated, sitting back with a slightly defeated expression. "I... I honestly don't know."

Silence descended over them for several long moments, thick and cloying until John couldn't hold back anymore.

"Sherlock? What happened in Portugal?"

Sherlock's head flew up, his eyes narrowing. "What did he tell you?"

"That you almost killed a man."

"Would that bother you?"

"Is it true?" John countered.

Sherlock pushed himself up to sit on the sofa beside John, arms crossed protectively across his chest. He went to speak several times, but couldn't seem to find the words.

"Sherlock?"

"It's true," Sherlock whispered brokenly, sinking his head in his hands. "John, I- I don't know what came over me. I couldn't stop and I- I know you must be disgusted with me. This isn't something I expect you to forgive me for."

Sherlock was trembling now and John reached out for him without hesitation, pulling him close.

"He- he wasn't a very nice man, I'll bet," John whispered shakily against Sherlock's hair, trying helplessly to make light of the situation.

Sherlock choked out John's name and leaned into him completely, his face hidden against John's neck.

"It's going to be alright," John murmured, rubbing circles into Sherlock's back and letting out a steadying breath. "We'll get through this. Together."


	5. Chapter 5

The first strike came via the Internet, of all places. John often found himself googling his and Sherlock's names, to see what the media were saying about them. Usually, all he found were the same old articles about recent cases, or sometimes the odd piece rehashing Kitty Riley's exposé, but nothing new or particularly meaningful. Just when he thought they might have been spared the worst of the media's two-faced interest, he found the blog entry that signalled the beginning of the end.

**_The truth about John Watson_ **

_John Watson has a certain look about him, a sort of rugged handsomeness that almost - almost - explains what a 29-year-old might see in him. He looks harmless enough, this former priest turned crime-fighter. He looks like a nice man, doesn't he? But does this view change when we learn that John Watson, Father Watson as he was then, met his current partner almost fourteen years ago. When Sherlock Holmes was only 15 years old. What about when we learn that Fr. Watson was the young boy's only confidante? Or that a 15-year-old spent the night alone with a 28-year-old man? Do we know the real John Watson at all? Is he really as harmless as he seems?_

John was prepared to ignore the blog - after all, it was an anonymous writer and the rest of the blog was filled with entries revealing the 'truth' about this or that celebrity, all of it little more than thoughtless speculation or wild accusations. That was until he received a visit from Mycroft Holmes.

"Sherlock's not here," John announced as soon as he'd greeted Mycroft.

"I know," Mycroft said with a slight smile that disappeared just as quickly as it had appeared. "I'm here to speak to you."

"To me?"

"Indeed," Mycroft said, holding out a file. John took it and opened it to find the first page containing a printout of the blog entry he had only just been reading. "You're familiar with this, I believe."

John felt a little sick and he met Mycroft's calm gaze with a slightly panicked look.

"Mycroft, I - I didn't abuse your brother."

"I know you didn't," Mycroft answered, instantly easing some of the tension in John's body. "You would have disappeared the very next day if you'd laid a single finger on him." 

John wasn't sure if that was supposed to comfort or scare him, but before he could decide, Mycroft continued. "Nevertheless, someone is obviously trying to suggest just that."

"It's just one stupid blogger," John said hesitantly. 

"It's a very serious accusation," Mycroft said. "The police may have to get involved."

John sank into the nearest chair. "Who would accuse someone of something like that?"

"Who indeed?" Mycroft said meaningfully.

John looked up with a frown. "You think this is Moriarty's work?"

"I do. Which is exactly why I'm here."

"I don't follow."

"I've discussed this with Sherlock already. His objectivity could be called into question in this matter."

"So what are you going to do?"

"Try to find our anonymous blogger before things get too out of hand. We have the best computer technicians in the country tracing the IP address and trying to match it to a person. That should leave Sherlock free to continue his work stopping Moriarty."

"I... Thank you, Mycroft."

"You're welcome."

Mycroft moved to leave, but paused at the door, turning back towards John.

"I may never have made it plain, John, but I think you are the best thing that has ever happened to my brother."

John was stunned by such a statement coming from Mycroft and could only nod in thanks as the elder Holmes left.

****

Sherlock came home only a few hours later, angrier than John had ever seen him.

"Idiots!" he shouted almost as soon as he walked through the door.

"Sherlock, what's wrong?" John asked worriedly.

"I've just spoken to Lestrade. They've issued a warrant for your arrest."

"What?" John got out. "But...how?"

"Lestrade wouldn't say."

John ran a hand over his face. He could hardly believe this was happening.

"John," Sherlock said, taking hold of him by the arms. "I will stop him. And I will stop this ridiculous farce."

"I thought Mycroft was going to find the blogger," John murmured absently.

"It's gone beyond a simple blog now. Scotland Yard wouldn't be able to issue a warrant without more evidence than that."

"But what evidence?" John whispered desperately. "There is no evidence."

"John, I--" Sherlock cut himself off, glancing towards the window. "They're here."

John closed his eyes and took a deep breath, hoping that maybe he'd just wake up to find this had all been a bad dream. Unfortunately, when he opened his eyes again, it was to the sight of Lestrade entering the room followed by two constables.

"What's going on?" Mrs. Hudson asked in a querulous tone. "Sherlock? John?"

"It's fine, Mrs. Hudson," John reassured her, glancing at Lestrade. "It's just a misunderstanding."

"John, I'm really sorry about this," Lestrade said. "It's just... procedure. We're going to have to take you to the station for questioning."

John nodded solemnly, and stepped forward, his eyes fixed on Sherlock. One of the constables stepped forward with a pair of handcuffs and Sherlock let out an angry noise.

"Lestrade, that's hardly necessary, don't you think? He's not resisting."

The PC looked to Lestrade questioningly and Lestrade waved him away. Sherlock turned his attention back on John, looking lost and hurt.

"It'll be alright," John said with a weak smile. "I know you'll figure it out."

John could see Sherlock struggling with his emotions and he took a step forward as Sherlock turned his back on the room.

"I'm ready," John said, and Lestrade stepped up next to him, a hand hovering near his elbow as he was led out of the flat and down the seventeen steps, out into the street and into the waiting car. 

Lestrade sat in the back with John and as soon as they were underway, he turned to John with a pained expression.

"I just want you to know, John, that I don't believe a word of it."

"Thank you."

"But it's not my case. Conflict of interests and all that. I'm here because I want this to go as smoothly as possible so we can clear this up and get you home."

"I appreciate it," John said genuinely.

Lestrade sighed and rubbed at his tired face. "I don't know who Sherlock's pissed off now, but this isn't a game anymore."

They fell silent and John watched unblinkingly as London passed him by in a blur.

****

Despite Lestrade's attempts to throw his weight around, John was still left in a holding cell for over an hour before the DI in charge of the case was available to interview him. He spent the hour in silent prayer, hoping that Sherlock - or Mycroft, or anyone - would get to the bottom of this and get him back home. When he was finally led along to the interview room, he was relieved to see Lestrade sitting next to a larger, chubbier man who introduced himself as DI Simmons.

"DI Lestrade has asked to observe this interview," Simmons explained with a glance at his colleague. "Is that okay with you?"

John nodded silently and the DI started the tape, going through the usual spiel that John had seen on every cop show ever broadcast. 

"Now, Mr. Watson, we'd like to talk to you about Richard Brook."

"Who?"

Simmons frowned and glanced at Lestrade before continuing. "Is it true that in 1999 you were a priest at a small church in East London?"

"Yes. Briefly, before I joined the Army."

"And during that time, you helped at one of the nearby schools," Simmons continued, consulting a file in front of him, "St. Hilda's Convent School, am I right?"

"Yes."

"During that time, did you have any contact with the children?"

"I taught a few R.E. classes."

"Did you ever spend time with a pupil alone?"

"No," John said. "Not that I can remember." He could feel desperation rising in his chest. "Detective Inspector, I am not a paedophile."

"When did you meet Sherlock Holmes?" Simmons asked suddenly, earning him a look from Lestrade.

"In... 1998."

"How old were you?"

"Twenty-eight."

"And Mr. Holmes?"

"Fifteen."

"And did you ever spend time with Mr. Holmes alone?"

"Yes," John said reluctantly. 

"Can you expand on that?"

"He... He came to my house one evening when he'd run away from home. It was snowing. I let him stay the night."

"Where did he sleep?"

"In the spare room," John answered, trying hard to remain calm.

"And did you have any inappropriate contact with him at any time?"

"No," John said shakily. "I told you, I'm not a paedophile. I was a priest, I would have helped anyone who turned up on my doorstep like that!"

"When did you first have sexual contact with Mr. Holmes?" Simmons asked, sitting back in his chair and folding his arms.

"Last year."

Simmons gave a little hum, and Lestrade gave John what seemed to be an attempt at a reassuring look.

"And you claim not to know Richard Brook?"

"I don't know anyone by that name."

"He was a pupil at St. Hilda's."

"I don't remember any of their names. It was, Christ, it was over ten years ago."

Simmons hummed again, then leaned forward, resting elbows on the table.

"The problem in these cases, Mr. Watson, is that it's often one word against another. And I'm sure you're well aware that priests don't always have the best reputation when it comes to this sort of thing."

"That doesn't mean it's true," John said wearily.

"I realise that. But for the time being, I'm afraid we're going to have to hold you while we talk to Mr. Brook again. And probably Mr. Holmes as well."

John sighed, but let himself be led back to the cell again, the door banging shut behind him with a low thud. 

****

The hours seemed to blur together, and John soon lost track of the time in that little cell. He was given a pathetic meal and, what felt like only a short while later, the lights were shut off, signalling that it was time to go to bed. He spent most of the night laying silently on the uncomfortable bed, praying with everything in him. He managed to get to sleep at some point, but he felt hardly rested at all when he woke in the morning.

He ate his breakfast in a daze and was starting to lose track of time once more when he heard footsteps on the hard floor outside, and the sudden thud which indicated that his door was being unlocked. The door opened and John scrambled to his feet, trying to prepare himself for another pointless interview like the last one. 

Lestrade appeared in the doorway with a grim expression that instantly made John's heart sink.

"John."

"Lestrade," John said quietly, bracing himself for the bad news.

"You're free to go."

"I'm... what?" John got out in surprise, even as he stumbled towards the door.

"The charges have been dropped."

"I don't understand."

"It was a hoax, John," Lestrade explained. "Just like we all thought it was. Richard Brook was nothing but an idiot paid by James Moriarty to come up with false accusations about you."

"Moriarty..." John mumbled, shaking his head slightly.

"If it makes you feel any better, Brook's being charged with wasting police time and, well, anything we can throw at him, to be quite frank."

"So it's... over?"

"Yes, John. You can go home."

"That's- that's great news. But... you don't look very pleased," John commented, confused.

"John," Lestrade started, his tone filled with something awful, something that made John take an involuntary step back. 

"What is it?" John asked breathlessly.

"John...Sherlock's dead."

THE END

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please don't kill me :-) There will be more in this series, hopefully soon, so keep your eyes open.


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